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Eighteen

“Wishing to be friends is quick work, but friendship is a slow ripening fruit.”

Aristotle

Aidan watched as Gwen brought the spoon to her lips, her posture elegant even in the simple act of eating. Though she might not favor this particular soup under ordinary circumstances, tonight hunger rendered her unusually enthusiastic. The gentle clink of silver on porcelain punctuated the hum of conversation around the long dining table, accompanied by the occasional chime of crystal or faint rustle of silk.

It was a profound joy to witness her in this light. No longer guarded, but surrounded by ease and laughter. On their wedding day, there had been warmth, certainly, but a heaviness had hovered above their gathering. Tonight, by contrast, the air itself seemed lighter, as though the burdens of doubt and suspicion had finally been swept away. Gwen’s cheeks were tinged with a natural flush, and her gaze remained bright as she listened to the tale being retold by Saunton and Filminster. Her contented expression was a balm to Aidan’s tightly strung nerves.

The story was, apparently, a well-embellished retelling of how Saunton’s brother had managed to win his bride. Gentle laughter echoed around the table, mingling with the mellow glow of candlelight that flickered against the crystal decanters and polished wood. Beneath the tablecloth, Aidan slid his hand toward Gwen’s and covered it lightly. Her fingers tensed a moment in surprise, then relaxed. She turned toward him just enough to grant a small sidelong smile before returning her attention to the tale.

Even in this moment of tentative harmony, Aidan’s thoughts drifted toward Julius Trafford. The nagging worry remained. Where was the devil-may-care heir? Was he hurt? Alone? The bloodied note haunted him still, its crimson mark etched into his thoughts. It seemed almost a betrayal to sit in comfort, dining on roast and puddings, when Trafford might be in mortal danger. Yet, glancing around the table, he saw similar shadows behind the smiles. The fear for their missing friend was shared, though unspoken.

“And then Trafford said he could attest that Perry was an irreparable idiot to all who were present.”

The punchline prompted Gwen to cover her mouth, her eyes dancing with amusement. “Little Julius has always been a bit of a scoundrel,” she said lightly, her tone teasing.

The laughter fell away with astonishing swiftness. Silence pressed in. All heads turned toward her with collective surprise, forks pausing mid-air. The ticking of the clock upon the mantel became suddenly audible.

Even Smythe, who had been entirely absorbed in his soup, looked up with an uncomprehending glance before realizing the shift in mood.

Aidan cleared his throat, voice low. “Do you … know Lord Trafford, Gwen?”

Gwen’s brow furrowed at the attention. “No, but Lady Hays tells stories about Little Julius all the time. He frequently snuck into her home to wreak havoc on her household as a boy.”

Saunton’s hand moved to adjust his cravat, a small frown forming. “Lady Hays?”

“She resides near her niece’s house in Mayfair,” Gwen replied. “We are speaking of the heir to the Earl of Stirling, are we not? Little Julius was a regular visitor in her home.”

The name had barely left her lips when a flicker of recognition sparked in Aidan’s mind. He turned to Filminster, whose subtle shake of the head confirmed it. No one had considered Lady Hays’s home.

Then, the final piece fell into place.

“You mean … Aunty Gertrude?”

Gwen smiled gently. “That is correct … Lady Gertrude Hays. She was recounting a story about him at the ball where we met. After our betrothal was announced, she sought me out. Said it was a great pity I had not met her great-nephew. I believe she had hoped we might take to each other.”

The implication lingered. Lady Hays had once envisioned a match between Gwen and Lord Trafford.

“She told me he needed an intelligent woman to bring him up to scratch.”

Aidan exchanged a look with Filminster.

“And … is Lady Hays in London at present?” he asked.

Gwen shook her head. “She left with her husband shortly after the ball. She told me they would not return until Christmastide, but that we might expect an invitation to a house party before then.”

Hope surged through Aidan. If Lady Hays’s townhouse was near the Stirlings’ London residence and if she had left just after the ball … then perhaps that was where Trafford had taken refuge. And if Miss Gideon was with him, it could explain her sudden disappearance.

But riding up to knock on Lady Hays’s door in broad daylight was out of the question, not with the real culprit still at large, possibly watching their movements. They would need to proceed with caution, not give away the game.

At the head of the table, the Duke of Halmesbury gave a genteel cough into his hand. “Smythe, the wine this evening is quite fine. Where did you come by it?”

Aidan glanced down. The duke’s goblet was full. It was a subtle cue. Halmesbury was deflecting, giving cover. Around the table, there was a flutter of movement as the conversation turned obligingly.

Lord Saunton raised his own glass with a bright smile. “Indeed, remarkable flavor.” He had barely touched his portion, as Aidan recalled. None of Sophia’s immediate family, a gesture of solidarity, knowing the pain spirits had brought to her kin.

Talk turned to the meal, to the quality of the fish and the freshness of the herbs. Aidan returned to his own plate, only to find Gwen watching him closely. Her gaze lingered, thoughtful and steady, her soup momentarily forgotten.